


A predictably twisted dark story

by Species8472



Category: Original Work
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 20:34:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21062792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Species8472/pseuds/Species8472
Summary: What happens when you buy a house but don't look in the attic before you sign the contract? Well, in this case the new owner discovers a diary recounting a strange high school girl and her secretly obsessive admirer.





	A predictably twisted dark story

I had just bought the house and was sifting through years’ worth of broken furniture and receipt books in the attic when I found it. A hand-bound leather journal that looked to be about a hundred years old. I picked it up, carefully, as if it might disintegrate with the slightest touch, leaving a relatively dust-free square on the table. I blew the dust away from the cover and opened it to the first page. The paper was creamy white, not the typical printer paper with no texture, no, within this paper I could see every fiber of plant material that had been carefully pressed, bleached and dried. The title page read “The complete story of Lila Rabbet” in hand-drawn cursive of black ink. I put the book down, perhaps a story for another time.  
That night, as I was readying my mediocre dinner of microwave rice and chicken, my mind drifted to the book again. I quickly glanced over and the television set that had come with the house. It was covered in dust and I doubted it would work. The microwave beeped, I opened the door and removed my steaming container of rice. I placed it on the table next to the couch and began to walk towards the staircase. As I climbed the old, creaky stairs I wondered, ‘what could be in that book?’ I picked it up from the corner of the old table on which I had left it during my earlier raid. As I head back to the living room, I open the cover in anticipation. Who was Lila Rabbet? What was so interesting about her that it deserved a book. I had done many interesting things, and no one had ever written a book about me, at least none that I knew of. A cloud of dust flies into the air as I sit heavily on the couch, springs complaining under my weight. I turn on the lamp nearby, and, by some miracle, the bulb comes to life. I flip past the first page and begin reading.  
“September 12, 1946.  
Today was the first day of high school, it was great to see everyone again. John is as quick-witted as always and Betty as snobby as ever. While it was the same people that I’ve known for my entire life, everyone seems a little bit different. Like we’ve all matured in the three-month break that separates two of the largest eras in our young lives. Possibly the most changed of all of us is Lila. We all remember her as the girl who always had mud on her dress or the one who brought a live frog to school in her pocket, but this year she’s different. She’ll hardly look at me, she was wearing a white dress today, without even a speck of dirt, and her hair was braided tightly into a bun. Her family certainly wasn’t rich enough to afford sending her to a boarding school over the summer, and no tutor in the world could straighten out the girl I knew last year, and definitely not in a mere three months. I wonder if she’ll be the same tomorrow.”  
It was signed by a ‘James L.’ This was not what I thought it would be. I was expecting something like a fictional story about dragons or brave knights, but this was real, personal, and something about it itched my brain to keep on reading. Knowing that I quite literally had someone’s life story in the palm of my hand was a power I was not prepared to have. I turned the page.  
“September 13, 1946.  
She wore a light blue dress today, her hair still in that bun. I know she hates, or hated, math class, yet she sat with a straight back throughout the entirety of our teacher’s ramblings. Not once did she doodle in her notebook, nor chew the end of her pencil. All of her character was gone, stripped, taken from her by an unknown force. I have to find out what happened.”  
As I kept reading, the entries, all written in the same, carefully illustrated cursive, would generally describe daily activities, but tended to focus on Lila Rabbet. What kind of dress she wore, how she sat by herself at lunch and just stared into empty space with glazed over eyes, not eating, not talking, just thinking. The writer found her actions curious, no doubt, but it also had a hint of something else. Nothing I could put words to, at least not yet, anyway. But as the entries furthered, a certain fascination seemed to infest itself into the writer’s words. If I didn’t know better, and maybe I didn’t, I’d have thought that James had a crush on Lila.  
A noise outside, perhaps the rotten shutters being blown against the peeling siding, broke my concentration. I lifted my head, only to be met with an intense pain at the base of my skull. I rolled my head around to rid my muscles of their knots. My eyes caught the numbers on my digital clock. It was almost eleven o’clock! I had been reading for three hours straight! My dinner was no doubt ice cold, but I didn’t feel hungry anymore. I had been so engulfed in the story, all perception of hunger and time had been abandoned long ago. I had a job interview tomorrow, at the local restaurant, so my better judgement told me it was time to go to bed. I turned off the lamp and left the book on the table.  
After I had scraped my untouched dinner into the trash and placed my dishes in the sink, I started up the stairs, but I didn’t get far before my mind drifted back to the book. After all, my interview wasn’t until 10am, so I could sleep in a bit. And the worst that could happen is that the dark circles under my eyes become a darker shade of purple, and that’s what makeup’s for, right? A little concealer, a touch of eyeshadow, maybe some blush and a massive cup of tea, I’d be just fine.  
I returned to the couch and picked up the book, I’ll continue reading in bed. My bed was the one big thing that I had moved so far, and I was so grateful I did. As I readied myself for bed, I couldn’t tear my thought away from that book. Having something like that, something so personal, so cherished, it pulled my morals into question. Was I really the kind of person to read another’s diary? Short answer, no, I wasn’t, but this was different. James was probably already dead, and if he was, it would be just like reading the diary of Anne Frank, right? And that seemed to be acceptable, so I figured this was okay too.  
I sat down on my bed, which currently sat in an empty room with only a window to my right, covered by dust covered and torn curtains, and the solid wood door to my left. I tucked my quilt around my feet and propped my pillow up against the backboard. I picked up the book from my makeshift nightstand, ironically a stack of regular books, and open up to the page where I had left off.  
As the school year progressed, the entries became more specific, almost obsessive. The author began to count how many freckles she had, how many buttons she has on the front of her dress, even the number of carefully ironed pleats in her skirt. Sometimes even rough sketches accompanied the words. From what I could tell, Lila was a natural beauty, or was at least drawn as such. She always wore the same style of dress, a light-colored button down, and always had the same braided bun. Her features were shown to be very stern, and somehow gentle at the same time. The only noticeable characteristic about her that didn’t make her look like a factory-made barbie doll was her chin dimple that was uniformly illustrated into every version of her, actually it made her look rather young. Not childlike, but it contradicted her projected self-image of maturity and wisdom with a hint of arrogance.  
Most logs were relatively similar, however one entry, the last one in fact, stood out to me in particular. Not only was it almost four times as long as the other entries, but the things it related were beyond what I could have ever imagined. On this day, May 17, James started a conversation with Lila in the schoolyard, after everyone had left. Usually they just exchanged words between classes, or talked in groups, but they had never really had a one-on-one conversation. But this was only the first strange event to take place. Lila was wearing a light-yellow dress, hair in a bun as usual. As I kept reading James wrote the dialogue that, I assume, had take place. It went as follows:  
James: Hey Julie, what are you doing after school today?  
Lila: I’m going home.  
James: Do you want to stop by the candy shop on the way there? I think they still carry peppermint sticks, those are your favorite, right?  
Lila: Maybe I wasn’t clear, I’m going straight home, alone.  
At this point James writes that she quickly spun on her heels and walked away. Even I would have been frustrated had I been in James’ situation, I might have even confronted her about her attitude, but what James did was inexplicable. Not only did he follow her, but her grabbed her by her hair, loosening it from its bun, and dragged her by it into a nearby storage shed.  
My hand instinctively flew to cover my mouth, I looked away from the page, towards the window. The sun was just now peeking over the horizon, bringing light into my room. My alarm read 4:13am, but I didn’t care, I had to finish. I forced myself to continue on. I kept reading as James described the gruesome aftermath of his assault. He didn’t play with her much, not in the way that so many renowned killers teased their victims. He described staring into her tearful eyes as she begged for her life, urging him to spare her life. He writes as if he feels pleased that she didn’t even try to run for the shed door and escape.  
At this point the writing had become sloppy, as if the writer was in a hurry, but why he would have been in a hurry remains unknown.  
James did turn out to be a merciful killer, at least. One quick blow to her head with a shovel rendered her unconscious, the next stopped any remaining neurological activity. The entry ended with this question: What’s done is done, but what happens now?

My fingernails scratched the back cover as I grasped for another page. While they found no further paper, they were met with an unusual texture. I turned the last page over, and upon seeing the inside cover, the ending question was answered. Two equally sized, oval shaped holes were placed above a larger and more linear tear in the leather. I held the book further from my face, the curious placement of the holes now made sense. It was warped and contorted, to fit the rectangle of the book cover, but its origin couldn’t be mistaken, it was a face.

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to think this wasn't predictable, and that I wrote a completely original story, but unfortunately that isn't the case. If you're like me, and can see miles ahead of stories like this, please take a moment to suggest what I could do better. Thanks!


End file.
